


The World is an Arm's Reach Away

by InkTail



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: 5+1 Things, Fluff, Gen, Hugging, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Beta, No Plot, No Smut, The sacred Trinity of fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-26 18:55:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13863888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkTail/pseuds/InkTail
Summary: Five times Prompto goes to Ignis for comfort, and one time Ignis comes to Prompto.





	1. Tag-Team Victory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dying_deist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dying_deist/gifts).



> Well, this is quite late. A gift from the FFXValentine exchange over on Twitter gone very rogue! And though I'm still not actually done, it's March now and you deserve to have something, even if it's not all at once like you wanted. I started this the day I got my assignment, because I know how slow I work, but life happened, as life does, and I dropped the ball. The ball rolled away. Picking it back up feels like picking up a cat that does not want to be held, though, so I'm not sure this is my ball. But it is A ball, and this metaphor is going no where.
> 
> Happy Valentine's Day all the same Balial! I sincerely hope you enjoyed the holiday. <3

Gunshot fills their heads. It ricochets against the stone fins angling up from the ground in deafening echos. The warriors wince. The cover the waves of stone provides them is a strategic boon. The acoustics... less so. The hounds circling in on Ignis and Prompto, however, appear completely unperturbed. Their drooling, snapping maws press in closer, until the men are back to back pressed deep under the sheet of stone.

Prompto puts a bullet in the head of one, then two, and Ignis buries the long blade of his spear into the heart of another. The creatures drop like wetted mops, matted dirty hair sopping up the bloodshed before it can begin to pool over the ground. They make two more corpses, but still they remain outnumbered—three havocfangs for each of their two.

The spear bursts into crystal shards and returns to its masters hand in a blink, ready to taste battle again. Prompto rubs at his ear with his free hand, brushing arms with Ignis while he groans about the accentuated reverb. 

One of the hounds leaps, seeming to take advantage of Prompto's distraction—Ignis twirls to strike it down without thinking. He serves death with all the fluid grace of a coeurl… but with the precision of a inebriated behemoth. The arc of the lance is poetry in motion, and sonnets could be written glorifying the speed with which Ignis has come to his partners aide; yet the execution is anything but artistic.

The spear finds its mark, at the very least, piercing the fiend in midair and knocking it off course. Pinned to the soil by the polearm through its hip, it cries in shrill, agonized octaves. The price for his haste is accuracy. Instead of the quick end Ignis usually doles with steel through the heart, the blade of his lance rips through soft tissue, shredding vital internal organs and dooming the creature to a slow, painful death.

The unfortunate situation churns unpleasantly in his stomach. Killing is messy work, and he would prefer to leave the mess to the others, taking solace instead in knowing how to give his victims as quick and clean an end as possible. Nevertheless, it is one less enemy concentrated on having him and Prompto for dinner, and another thousand gil in their pockets. Had the hunt billing not promised their reward paying ‘per head’, Ignis might have concluded this risk unworthy of their time and skill. 

Another concussive gunshot rattles around between his ears, jolting Ignis out of his thoughts. The battle rages on around him, but he has Prompto to cover for his momentary lapse in composure.

“Come back to me Igster, we're not done yet,” Prompto says, pressing closer. His is a grounding presence. But it's the waver in his voice that spurs Ignis back into the right headspace for their task. Calling his lance back into his hands, he moves purposefully, taking very careful aim at the smallest of the remaining four. 

When finally the last of their marks falls, and while Prompto is taking aim to put Ignis’s blundered kill out of its misery, Ignis banishes his lance and moves eagerly out into the sunlight. He lets the heat ease the tension in his neck and shoulders, and doesn't even wince when Prompto pulls the trigger. Without the oppressive stone ceiling, the shock of the shot isn't nearly so jarring.

A weight from behind forces him to take a step forward to stay on balance, and he very nearly calls his daggers to his hands to fend off an attack. But there is no attack, he feels a bit silly for the mistake. Pale arms snake around his waist, gently melding him against the body behind his. In a very Prompto move, the other man presses his forehead into the join of Ignis's shoulder and neck. His gell stiffened tips tickle Ignis's ear when he sighs.

“Well, that sucked.” 

“The situation may have gotten a bit out of hand, but I'd say we managed quite well.” Ignis twines his fingers into the hands clasped around his stomach and squeezes. Prompto grunts, which Ignis takes to mean he's agreeing. They stay like that for a long moment, the sun caressing Prompto's back and Prompto hugging Ignis's. It's a good moment, a quiet appreciation for another successful hunt in the proverbial bag, and Ignis would happily stand like that with him until sunset. But there is work to be done yet. 

With a happy hum he lets go of Prompto's hands, disengaging with as much gentleness as Prompto had used to wrap him up. “We’d best rally his Highness and Gladio while there is still daylight. They certainly flushed a good number of the pack out of the caves, but their silence is worrisome.”

“Yeah, I figured Gladio would be out here gloating up a storm by now, haha.” Prompto lets his arms fall back to his sides, but walks with his shoulder casually bumping against Ignis's arm. His closeness means their hands brush often, fingers catching as they walk. 

Never one for ambiguity, Ignis easily catches Prompto's hand in his. Twining their fingers feels so natural now, Ignis wonders how he ever got so far in life without a hand to hold his. 

That answer is easy; he never knew he needed one.


	2. A Favorite Meal

Whatever Iggy is doing at that little camp stove, Prompto wants to know. It smells _soooo gooood_ , he nearly groans. The scents caress his senses like a cartoon temptress lures lusting men into her embrace with exotic perfumes. He desperately wants to be over there, seeing what Iggy will let him get away with, which pots he can get his fingers into before he's chased off, or what types of morsels Iggy will feed him in exchange for a kiss. 

Prompto wants that very very much… but almost as badly, he also wants to beat Noct in this Harmony Warriors campaign. Needs to, even. It's been too long since he's had a victory. Once, he boasted the champions title for a week straight, much to Noct and Gladios unending dismay. But lately he's been off his game—literally. He hasn't opened the ap in so long that his notifs are bribing him with a free ring of the Zell Bell to pull him back in. 

He's been spending his evenings with Ignis more and more lately, neglecting his ass-crushing duties as local champion. 

But not tonight! Tonight it's just him and Noct (and Gladio), bonding through Noctis’s impending defeat. And though he sneaks longing looks over his phone at Ignis every time a new scent wafts his way, his little Shantotto is still hundreds of points ahead of Noctis in the match. Sir Gladio I’m-not-projecting-it's-called-strategy Loserface isn't as close to passing him with Jecht (ha! pro **jecht** ing) than he usually comes with Kain, so Prompto isn't too worried about him. It's normal for them to trade off championshiphood anyway.

But Noct must have missed losing to his adorable little rage mage, because the second Gladio pointed out the Haven and Ignis suggested an early night, he cornered Prompto on his chocobo to beg for a round. And no way was Prompto going to turn down a chance to flex his virtual muscles. He kinda missed playing all the time anyway, missed one on one time with his best friend, however great one on one with Ig is.

The match counter is ticking down the final moments, flashy red numbers puffing out like balloons threatening to pop, when his nose tells him dinner is ready. He's on his feet in a flash with his fists in the air, crowing for the win as much as the idea of devouring whatever mouthwatering meal Ignis is cooking up. Gladio groans, he'd come so close! Noct just pouts, demanding a rematch like he always does when Prompto crushes him so spectacularly. 

“Sorry not sorry, buddy. You're **never** gonna beat her maining Ramza like that.” 

Noct's pout deepens into a sneer. “I could if you weren't such a magic spammer,” he grumbles, narrow eyes dancing behind his phone screen.

Prompto puts on a face of mock hurt, smacking a hand over his chest. “I'm offended and outraged by that accusation, thank you very little. If you can't handle the heat, man, maybe you should stick to King’s Knight.”

“Ugh, I can take the heat,” Noct whines, and Gladio snorts at that, rolling his eyes, “but those limited edition unlockables are so OP. You did the same thing with Terra in highschool.”

“Heh, guess I've just got a thing for mages.” Prompto does his best not to run to Ignis's side when he bows out of the rematch despite Noctis's pleading. He has to stand on his toes to hook his chin over his boyfriend's shoulder. Breathing in as deeply as his lungs will take, he pulls in all the delicious scents of the herbs and spices of this latest masterpiece, along with the earthy musk of motel soap and tang of detergent that always clings to Ignis's clothes. His hands come to rest naturally on elegant hips, fingertips curling comfortably around the belt under his palms. “Speaking of mages I like...” Ignis huffs a breath of a laugh and Prompto grins in pleasure. “What dark magic are you working over here? It smells distracting. Need help?” 

Prompto immediately tries his luck, inching one hand forward from under Ignis's arms to get his fingers into the pan he's stirring. But Ignis is wise to his tricks. Prompto only gets his hand swatted with the spoon he wields, and a lid clapped over the dish to keep mooching fingers out. “Aw, Iggyyyy.” 

“Your whining is unbecoming, and flattery will get you nowhere.” Ignis's deadpan warning is merciless as he tugs a basket out from under the stove with the toe of his crownsford boot. “As it is, I do require some assistance. I need to keep a very close eye on this sauce, lest it scorch. So you,” he bends down, leaving Promptos throat suddenly cold, to grope around in the basket at their feet, “can take the chocobos their dinners.” Straightening up, Ignis fills Promptos arms with several bundles of the broadleaf gysahl greens they'd recently bought from Wiz. “I know you don't mind.” There's a knowing twinkle in Ignis's eye that Prompto kind of hates, if only because he's right. 

Prompto absolutely does not mind at all, and he won't be ashamed of that as he shuffles of the side of the haven, down to where the birds are grazing. He hums as he works, changing songs as his whims dictate. Altaïr perks right up when he sees his rider coming over, laden with dinner, and nearly knocks Prompto over in his rush for attention. As the least particular bird, he plucks the offered bundle of greens out of Promptos hands and hurries off a safe distance, before one of the hens tries to make him share. 

He gets Ezio next, simply because she's closer. Prompto holds out a bundle for her to peck at. Content to eat out of his hands (and Prompto thrilled to let her,) she picks at her vegetables with all the same gusto her rider uses to avoid them. Ace and Princess, in true chocobo fashion, make great haste to Ezios side to help her eat her dinner like it's the only one around. The birds don't share so much as they race to eat the most, and Prompto genuinely adores their antics, but in the interest of fairness and the safety of his fingers, he sets Ezios dinner at her feet and lures first Ace, then Princess, away with promises of a dinner of their own.

He only stops to make sure Altaïr is sticking nearby before he whistles his way back to his human friends, his stomach gurgling excitedly.

Gladio and Noct have their dinners already, he notes when he crests the ledge. Their plates are nestled in their laps, barely touched, and their phones are in their faces. They don't even look up when he passes by them to the fire, and by the way Noct is glaring so fiercely at his screen, the rematch must be deep in Gladio's pocket.

“Sit,” says Ignis, when Prompto passes his seat at Noctis's side to claim one of the two plates in the cooks hands. 

Blinking, Prompto sits. 

Ignis, light of his life and heart of his world, flourishes dramatically as he presents Prompto a beautifully arranged dinner plate. An artistic crescent of colorfully speckled rice hugs an immaculately fanned cut of daggerquill breast, which rests overtop a rainbow of glistening vegetables. 

Almost reverently Prompto takes the plate in both hands. “Astrals, Iggy. If this were any prettier I don't know if I could eat it,” he breathes in awe, slowly rotating the dish until he finds the angle he'd use for a photo to forever capture this gift if he had the camera on hand. The colors are perfectly balanced—green, red, and orange pop against the paler rice, highlighting the daggerquill as the centerpiece—with deep contrast and flickering highlights thanks to the dancing firelight. 

“I think you'll find it easier, after the first bite.” Ignis smiles, settling into his chair across the fire with his own dinner. But his eyes never leave Prompto, drinking in the appreciative look on the man's face, basking in the childlike adoration in his eyes. Ignis will never admit to it, but anyone watching him could see how he preens under so much genuine attention for his work.

It's the insistent gurgling in his gut that drives Prompto to take that first bite. And then a second, before he's really finished the first. It's good. It's _really good_. Even better than the smells, though he wouldn't have thought it possible. Moments like these make him wish he knew a single thing about cooking food, so he could pay Ignis the descriptive compliments he deserves. The flavors are enticing, the textures are perfect; soft rice, crisp veggies, and the moistest meat he's had all week. The second he swallows, his mouth begs for more. And _stars_ the burn! The rice might as well be on fire for the heat it packs. His tongue tingles happily after a few bites, and tears prick at his eyes after so many more. 

“Is it to your liking?” That knowing look is back in Ignis's eye, enhanced by a twinkle from the fires light. His smile is soft, inviting. Devious.

Prompto wipes his eyes, nodding with enthusiasm because he knows Ignis wouldn't appreciate a vocal answer with his mouth so full of happiness. 

“Aww, look at that. You've moved him to tears, Iggy.” Gladio teases, grinning madly while finally picking up his dinner. Prompto laughs and keeps eating.

Too soon, his plate is clean. There's a pleasant throb in the back of his throat, and he has to breathe through his mouth for any semblance of comfort. But the grin on his face feels permanent. The weight of both his meal and most of Noctis's, (vegetables only, transferred under the quiet but disappointed eyes of the chef,) plus the warmth of the fire lulls Prompto into a blissful trance while Gladio polishes off the leftovers.

But it's Ignis moving to collect their dishes that gets him to his feet. “Ah, let me wash, Ig, you've done enough.” 

“Nonsense, the brunt of the work is done. It's just these few now,” he says, plucking the plate from Prompto's hands. Still eager to be useful, Prompto follows Ignis like a duckling back to the prep area where, true to his word, the few pans and utensils Iggy used to cook are layed out to dry. Still, he picks out a cloth and offers to dry what's left.

And afterwards, Ignis lets him carry the soiled dishwater off for dumping. Just to the base of the haven, within the wards that keep the daemons away, (not that he'd go any further anyway.)

When he crests the ledge again, Noct is dozing in his chair, head leaned uncomfortably against his own shoulder. Gladio is fiddling with the tent stakes, and Ignis is elbow deep in the camping supplies, putting away what he used for dinner and pulling out what he wants for breakfast. Prompto sets the empty bucket next to the rinse water under the stove and wanders over to where Ignis is kneeling. 

“Dinner was incredible, Ig. A new favorite, I think.” Prompto drapes himself over Ignis from behind, running his hands over and under his boyfriends biceps, to curl his arms around his chest. Ignis keeps working while Prompto lets a cheek rest between his shoulders. Prompto sighs happily, content to lean sleepily against Ignis while he finishes up.

When he's satisfied with the organization inside the bin, Ignis takes one of Prompto's hands in his and stands slowly, turning. Pulling Prompto against his chest is easy, he was halfway to putting himself there anyway. Tangled together, arms shift to find comfortable holds and Ignis finds Prompto's head nestled under his chin. A perfect vantage to press slow kisses into his scalp, against his forehead, below his ear… 

He knows that tickles, and Prompto writhes under his lips’ ministrations. It's endearing. But Ignis relents, settling for breathing in the curious scent in the smaller man's hair—something he thinks they all share, result of using the veritable dragon’s hoard of motel toiletries they've amassed through their travels. It's not unpleasant.

“Might I apologise?” He murmurs after Gladio finishes his work on the tent and wanders away.

“You might, but I gotta know what for first.” Prompto's voice slurs a bit, a sign that he's ready to find his sleeping bag. His arms tighten to hold himself up.

“I know you won't complain, and likely didn't even realize, but your dinner was… doctored. A bit.” Ignis doesn't miss the way Prompto's grip slips enough to let him pull away and look questioningly up at Ignis. Ignis is quick to reassure him. “It was nothing untoward, I assure you, just a hazing of sorts, I suppose. It was Gladio's idea. He brought the date to my attention, and we agreed something ought to be done, though our individual concepts of _something_ differed vastly at first.

“Normally hazing comes on the first days of enlistment, but you were quite occupied at the time. Gladio said it didn't feel right, by the time he had the chance to pull his prank. He had some rather unsavory prepositions, but funnily enough he's never picked up on your penchant for painfully spicy foods. So even if it was his idea, it suited my intentions just as well as his.”

“You've lost me.” Prompto cracks a yawn when Ignis pauses. Though he's doing his best to listen, Iggy is rambling, and Prompto is tired. “What date?” 

Ignis looks down at him, tipping his face up with a crooked finger. “Your anniversary, Prom… one full year of service to the crown.” Softly, slowly, Ignis presses their lips together. “We wanted to thank you for that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harmony Warriors is absolutely a play on Dissidia. It was going to be Kings Knight as I imagine it, before I found out Kings Knight is an actual game I could be playing. 
> 
> As always, please point out mistakes. Punctuation is hard. Tenses? Don't know her. 
> 
> see you Friday for chapter 3 :)}
> 
> [blease, come onto my tumblr and kick my ass into gear.](http://inktail.tumblr.com) I'm not allowed to play the royal edition dlc until this fic is DONE, and the spoilers are killing me.


	3. A Bad Dream

In his dreams, Prompto is alone. 

Sometimes he's lost. Other times he's abandoned, left behind. 

This time, he's running. He thinks someone is supposed to be running with him, but he can't turn and look. If he turns and looks at the flicker of white fur at his heels, the things they're running from will get them. 

He doesn't know what they're running from.

Insomnia’s skyscrapers fly by around him, impossibly fast; he feels like he's skating on ice, legs pumping without tiring, moving at a ground eating pace that ultimately takes him nowhere. Ahead and behind, there's only more city street, only more buildings blurring by in waves.

And there’s a darkness somewhere aside of him. If he turns, he'll see it; he knows he will, knows what happens when he does, because it always happens. He shouldn't look. But there's too much fear in him to not be sure. He looks; just a flick of the head to check, just to glimpse that it's really what he knows it is–and it is. It's there, and then suddenly, it's here. He’s pulled toward it… or is it pulled toward him. The hollow blackness rushes upon him like he was running for it the entire time. There are no more buildings, no more white blur at his heels, the rattling heavy footsteps of the things chasing him are far away, long forgotten. The world has slowed to a crawl. The darkness swallows him up, enveloping him and the world in cold, damp shadow.

He's been here before. It's fresh every time, but he's been here before. He knows this cave, and he knows what's coming. It calls to him in a voice that rattles like stones down a hillside, like storm winds through tree branches. Cold and evil and needy, she comes.

It's the same every time.

Her face—sometimes it's mom, sometimes his math tutor, sometimes the lady from the grocery store who always offered him a sucker with his single bag, but it’s always _her_ face—rockets out of the dark at Prompto, and what can he do but flinch? What could he do but throw himself to the ground and wait and wait as she draws herself up and up and up, horrible scaley body stretching and twisting and winding into suffocating coils all around him and then closing in, her face descending over him, mouth wide–

He doesn't wake up screaming; Prompto never seems to be able to find his voice after that nightmare. Fighting off the constricting sleeping bag twisted tight around him, pushing himself up onto his palms, he tries to catch his breath. Concentrates on the feeling of his heartbeat escaping through his throat. His lungs heave heavy gusts of useless air. His fingers slide over the slick nylon, clenching and unclenching around the fabric. 

His brain won't shake that image that tore him from his sleep, of the Naga closing in for a kiss of death, hissing for _her baby, her baby, oh where was her baby?_ It replays and replays in his mind's eye.

The tent is pitch dark around him. It's not yet morning, not even pre-dawn. Gladio is still in, snoring away by the zippered door. If Gladio is still here, Ignis is too. 

Ignis is here.

Ignis is _here_. 

It's too dark to really tell, but Prompto can imagine him, his head pillowed in his elbow, turned towards where Prompto sleeps, breathing lightly. Breathing normally. Lowering himself back on top of his sleeping bag, Prompto shuffles those precious inches, hoping the _shwish-shwishing_ isn't as loud as it feels, until he finds the soft, warm lump that is his boyfriend sleeping peacefully at his side. Curling close as he can manage without laying on top of Ignis, he wiggles until his forehead is pressed against Ignis’s heart.

When he breathes in, Prompto feels it and brings in a shaking breath too. His shoulders quiver from the effort of waiting those aching few moments before Ignis exhales. His own breath is less exhale and more like the gust from a Zu’s wings, sudden and powerful enough to knock a man over. There's a beat of silence which his brain fills with dream sequences. Ignis breathes in, Prompto gasps for air. _The Naga, wrapped around his knees, and then his chest, and then-_ Ignis breathes out. Prompto _whooshes_ through his teeth, straining to control his trembling. _A cage of teeth and the thick cloying rot of daemon flesh._ Ignis breathes like Galdan’s tide— _The Naga suffocates him in her twitching coils, wailing for a baby she'll never have again—_ and Prompto tries to match it. Slowly, his heart stops hammering a hole in his ribs. His breaths steady as the panic clawing at his throat subsides. The nightmare won't dissipate, but he knows he's safe here, in the tent, wrapped in Ignis's arms.

Oh.

He doesn't recall it starting, doesn't remember anything but concentrating on the lulling rise and fall of Ignis's chest, of the breath in his hair, and the warmth of their bodies. But there's a hand on his back now, rubbing a slow, comfortable rhythm along his spine. And another at the back of his head, holding him loose but close.

“Better?” Ignis whispers, oblivious to Prompto's surprise.

Prompto wonders, if he opens his mouth would anything come out? He doesn't think so. He nods, only whimpering a little when the stroking picks up pace and pressure before stopping completely. The arm holds him around his back, solid and warm. Prompto drags his hands up from between them, shifting to cradle his cheek in one hand, and drapes the other across what he thinks is Ignis's shoulder. Physically it is not the most comfortable set up. But it satisfies the panic that has finally realized there is no Naga, no threat. He can breath again, and hears something other than his own pulse thrumming in his ears. 

Because Ignis is here.

He doesn't think he'll fall back to sleep, not after that. His head's too awake now. But he knows if he does, Ignis will stay with him until morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one, but it was a lot of fun to write!
> 
> We're half way there and I _still_ have no idea what the last chapter is going to be. hmm. [You can visit me on tumblr and make sure I'm working.](http://inktail.tumblr.com)


	4. Link Strike

“Heads up!” 

Heads _down_ more like, Prompto thinks, throwing himself to his knees. Nocts blade goes sailing over head, trailing a comet's tail of crystal shards. Warping in to dance with the monsters in the sky, Noct appears in a shower of sparks. Prompto lowers his gun, flinging his hands to his hip as Noct engages the target Prompto had been aiming for.

Bees. Why'd it have to be bees?

He feels their droning buzz deep in his bones. Every millisecond beat of paper thin wings rips into the very core of his fracturing composure. Neck craning, he tries to keep his eyes on all of them at once, tries to single out a feasible target without turning his back to any of the child sized bugs. Stumbling over his own feet, Prompto dances backwards, sweating hands clammy around the pistols grip.

He wishes Noct would throw a thunder flask to knock them out of the sky. But Noct is channeling all his energy into warps and air steps to make himself fly along with them. Ignis could do it, but Ignis is using his lance to vault himself into the air and pin the bugs to the gravel. Even Gladio is trying his damndest, tossing his greatsword at the lumpy things like Ignis throws daggers. 

His gravity well could bring them all down to his level, but with Noct and Ignis darting around up there, the risk wouldn't be worth Gladio's wrath.

When one huge bee splits away from the swarm, away from the guys and towards him, Prompto doesn't hesitate to take aim. He lets the barrel follow it until his sights line up, breathes, and fires three shots. Two miss when the killer bees bumbling flight, halting and unpredictable, slides it out of the way of his bullets. But the third, aimed true, rips into the carapace, biting deep under the wing. The bee spirals to the ground, trailing wing limp and useless. It lands hard enough to spray dirt and stone, leaving a smear-like gouge through the pebbles as it flaps futily, buzzing desperate as it tries to regain fight with one wing. 

It spins haphazardly through the dirt, legs whirling, abdomen clenching and thrashing. Its stinger, a monstrous barb as long as his hand, stabs at empty air. Heart pounding dully in his chest, Prompto watches, mesmerized and more than a little disgusted by what he sees. The killer bee writhing madly in the dirt struggles closer and closer to the gunman who shot it down. All he can do is stare to prevent himself from thinking too hard about the way his gut is churning painfully in a way it hasn't in years. He's rarely ever sick, and he really doesn't want to sick up here, kilometers from any havens or modern comforts. His fingers dig into the fabric over his stomach, clenching to hold his tumultuous insides in place.

Until Gladio, somewhere behind him, starts roaring at him to _wake up_. Startled, Prompto shakes himself out of his stupor, but it's too late to act. The killer bee’s stinger is a short length from his ankles, and he'd dismissed his gun into the armiger without realizing it. 

A few things happen while Prompto snaps back to reality.

He reels, grasping hastily for the trembling threads that connect him to Noctis's magic. It takes him a few tries to grab on, and a few more before he finds his gun swirling in the phantom armory. The grip falls comfortably into clammy hands. The surge of confidence that comes touching the Luciis magic bolsters his spirit and steadies his nerves. This rush is familiar, though it does nothing for the disgust rolling through him.

Someone grabs him from behind, yanking viciously on his tank to get him away from the monster threatening his ankles with its poisoned stinger. He thuds against them, and they hold on to him by the shoulders, moving him out of the angry insects path. Their touch is unfamiliar, their presence too tall. Gotta be Gladio.

And then Ignis's spear comes flying out of nowhere, falling from the sky with deadly speed and hawk-eyed accuracy. It's head buries itself into the bees wings, pinning the creature down. Its pathetic flapping stops short; spindly legs claw and curl in the air while it tries to find the ground, or something to grab onto finally right itself. Ignis himself is attached to the shaft of the lance, using his weight to drive the blade down like a shovel. 

Prompto, gun in one hand, doesn't even need to aim.

Ignis jumps, twirling gracefully off the pole just as the shot fires. The body behind him jolts, taken by surprise. The bug dies a splatter of slime soaking into thirsty dirt as Ignis’s weapons bursts into crystal.

For a very long moment, nobody says anything. Gladio’s hand is still on Prompto’s shoulder. The churning in his guts returns with vigor as the silence drags on heartbeat by heartbeat; Prompto curls an arm around his middle to try and pacify the vicious churning waves of nausea he feels. He swears he can feel the lecture forming on Gladio's tongue, anxiety thrums under his skin where he can feel the tension building in the weight of Gladio's hand. 

When Gladio lifts his hand away, Prompto braces for yelling. He knows firing a shot so close to Ignis was foolish, knows how easy it is to cause an accident, how dangerous his guns can be for the others. But Ignis trusts Prompto, has certainty that he's as skilled with his weapons as any of the others are; and it's not like he could have missed with the target quite literally at his feet. But Gladio is not as trusting or certain. He can't be. Gladio only ever sees Prompto's flaws. Thankfully though, before Gladio can even breathe in, tirade ready at his lips, Ignis steps up to intercept. 

Soft, warm leather caresses his jaw where Ignis lays his palm against Prompto's face, drawing his attention away from the gooey mess he'd made of the monstrous insect. “Are you alright?” Ignis pulls Prompto's face up to look him in the eye, but Prompto's staring into the empty space out over Ignis's shoulder. “Prompto?”

Prompto blinks, swallows. 

“I think I'm gonna be sick...” 

Gladio stumbles away with a disgusted squawk. Coward.

The hand on Prompto's face shifts until it's pressing him gently downward, until they're both crouching, huddled toe to toe. Warm leather presses against Prompto's neck and he yields to the pressure until his head is between his knees. They stay like that, Prompto concentrating on breathing slowly through his mouth and the warm hand on his neck, and Ignis murmuring gentle praise. He certainly doesn't think about the way the monster died as a splatter at his feet or the twist in his stomach that twinges if he does. Definitely doesn't do that.

He did good, even if it was gross. No one is hurt, Ignis isn't mad, and Gladio can go suck a dick for thinking about telling him otherwise. He doesn't like being in such close quarters with his kills for exactly this reason. Prompto doesn't like bugs, sure. They're legs are too spindly and their bodies are too twitchy and they get into food and hair and sometimes grow big enough to kill. But he doesn't like gore either. It's why he uses guns and modifies long range weaponry. So he doesn't have to see the mess his shots make, can revel in his little victories while the others harvest the corpses for trophies.

Slowly his stomach unknots itself, and Prompto shifts until he can rest his face against Ignis's leg instead. The contrasting warmth is a surprise, he hadn't noticed how cold he'd grown in his distress; it's comfortable and welcome. Prompto wants to soak it all in now that he's aware of the chill in his body. Ignis hasn't moved a smidge through the whole ordeal. Even though he rests with one knee on the ground, his legs must be cramping just as hard as Prompto's are. 

Ignis, who's been trailing gentle fingers along Prompto's back to comfort him through the agony, slowly brings his hand up to run his fingers through blonde hair instead. “Feeling any better?” he asks, voice smooth, quiet. Prompto's arms are curled around his middle still, like the pressure might help the pain. Tentative, he begins to unfurl, waiting for the birds in his guts (anyone else might call them butterflies, but that's such a horrible concept for Prompto) to realize they're free to flutter again, to roil and churn and boil over.

But they don't. They're there, bumbling around and testing their wings, but there's no immediate threat to it. 

“Y-yeah, I think so. Thanks, Ig.” Ignis's arm curls around Prompto's shoulders just long enough for a comfortable squeeze. And then Ignis is standing, throwing his arms over his head, stretching his long legs and sighing happily for the relief it brings to stiffening muscles. 

Prompto laments the lost warmth cradling his face with a whine. He's not ready to stand, to test the proverbial waters. Sure he's mostly okay here on the ground, but standing could be a whole other game for his tender composure. He knows they've got a long, arduous walk back, and that they've already lingered too long on his account. His weakness is slowing them down. He's gotta stand so they can leave before the deamons come out to play. That idea alone pricks at his uneasy stomach. 

But then, as his thoughts being to spiral into dark places, there's a hand, a quiet friendly invitation reaching into his peripheral; the despondent whine dies in his throat. His doubts about standing begin to shrivel when he calculates Ignis into the equation. Having his whole world an arm's reach away, as steady support as he could ask for, the walk back to Verinas doesn't seem so long. 

His hand is ice melting into Ignis’s fiery grip. Long fingers tangle together in a familiar way, palms slotting together like puzzle pieces. Prompto lets Ignis heft him to his feet, and his heart swells under the attention. His stomach stays in place, thank the Astrals. And if his head is swimming, it's really not a problem because he's got Ignis here to hold him steady.

And Ignis is happy to do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had. Other plans for the direction that would take, but those veered left somewhere back at Hulldagh. Only technically a linkstrike. Ignis held it down, Prompto killed it. That's still teamwork, right? Right?
> 
> So, uuh, according to my notes I was supposed to post this yesterday. _whoops_. I kinda like this tuesday/friday update thing though, I may stick to that. Gives me more time to polish on the weekends :P
> 
> As always my [tumblr is here](http://inktail.tumblr.com), and you should probably come tell me to stop procrastinating.

**Author's Note:**

> That looked a lot longer on the doc :o
> 
> I've proofread all these chapters a hundred times, but I didn't try to find a beta before posting so please, feel free to point out mistakes! And suggest tags. I'm quite rusty with both accurate tagging and punctuation.
> 
> I'll be back soon with chapter 2; perhaps two days between chapters will give me the time I need.
> 
>  
> 
> [Visit me on tumblr and kick my ass into gear.](http://inktail.tumblr.com)


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